Your Father Loves You
by cosmo-queen
Summary: Faramir is moved at the sight of a sword he and Boromir gave their father long ago.


****

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

DISCLAIMER: Everything and anything Lord of the Rings related belongs to the biggest genius that ever lived, J.R.R Tolkien. Not me. 

****

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**__**

YOUR FATHER LOVES YOU

It is an odd feeling, standing in the room of my father. At first, I feel as though I am an intruder, and that should anyone discover me, I would be punished immediately and severely. Then I remember that I was willed to enter this room. True, it was not my father who ordered me to do so, but he is dead and the King Aragorn is ruler of Gondor now. I then feel as if I am betraying my father by entering his room without his permission. Yet I know I would be betraying the King if I refused to accept the fact that he authorises such matters now. Since the King has consented, I am permitted to enter the room. Standing in this room, where no doubt my father spent many hours pondering over the fall of Gondor, I then succumb to bitterness, recalling many unpleasant memories, for no doubt he thought about Boromir and me as well. I know he would not have thought too kindly of me. But above all, I feel emptiness. My father is dead. My brother is dead. This room is nothing but a reminder of the past, and the past is something I do not wish to dwell on, for I fear it would drive me mad. 

Yet I am here. The King was in need of some papers that were locked in my father's room, and asked that I collect them for him. At first I declined, saying that only the ruler of Gondor was allowed access to the room. This excuse did not satisfy him. He told me I was entitled to enter the room more than he was. Besides, as a Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien, I too was a leader of our country. Rather, he assumed that I did not want to enter the room because of the many memories contained within it. I could not look my King in the eye and say he was mistaken, and so his assumption was proved correct. He told me that he required the papers by the following morning, then left, but not before he had encouraged me to put the ghosts of the past to rest. I was left standing there, reflecting over King Elessar's advice. He was an honourable man, and I knew that what he spoke was indeed the truth. He expected those papers, and I decided that I would obtain them for him.

Thus, here I stand. The task is simple and quick enough, yet I have been standing here for well nigh an hour and remain empty-handed. The papers are contained within a draw that I have hardly glanced at, save for the first gaze of the room. Instead, my eyes study the various drawings in the room, all of which are gathering dust. It does not surprise me that they are all of Boromir, save one, which includes me with my brother, as children in our youth. But it is a small drawing in comparison to the rest, and is the dustiest of them all. That does not surprise me either, it is an old picture after all. While I feel tempted for a moment to wipe away the dust and stare at the innocence of childhood, I then imagine that it would be wrong to disturb the dust. While it has been many months since my father died, his room has been left untouched, and I do not consider it my duty to disrupt the particles of gathering time.

I find myself ever the more reluctant to uncover the papers, and turn to leave, when a glimmer of faintly gleaming metal catches my eye, and all thoughts of obtaining the papers are forgotten. Curious, I walk over towards the metal object, which has lost now its brief shine, and is curtained by shadows. I realise that I gaze upon a sword, and a string of memories come flooding back. Though it is an old memory, it is a clear one also, and I find myself recalling the history behind the sword.

There had been a minor attack on Osgiliath, and Boromir, who had injured himself and been commanded to return back to Minas Tirith to rest, despite his incessant protesting, was determined to draw up military strategies from his bedside. Greatly desiring our father's counsel, Boromir was slightly concerned when the Steward of Gondor remained locked in his tower, declining to emerge to aid even his favourite son. Boromir had assumed that the sudden attack had depressed the Steward, and injured his pride, and thus suggested that we give him a gift to boost his spirits and his confidence in himself. If anything, it would coax him out of that tower.

I agreed with my brother, though I told him that it seemed to me that something other than the attack was troubling Father. He had been in a brooding mood for quite some time now, and Boromir had not seen it while out fighting. When my older brother looked at me, waiting for me to elaborate, I mumbled that Boromir's reasoning was probably right after all. I had long been taught that my suggestions on most matters were mere, incorrect assumptions. 

Boromir then suggested that we give our Father a sword. It was a seemingly simple gift, but hopefully when Father clasped it in his hands, he would feel strengthened and empowered once again. Father had somewhat lost interest in his swords. I thought about my brother's suggestion, but to me, it lacked meaning. Though his interest in them had waned, the Steward still had plenty of swords at his disposal. It then crossed my mind that Boromir and I could engrave our names on each side of the sword. Thinking Boromir would laugh at my idea, I suggested it anyway, and was pleasantly surprised when my brother agreed with me.

It meant that a considerable amount of time had to be spent engraving our names in the sword, but by the time Boromir was fit enough to walk again, the task had been completed. I had done it myself, in fact, and my brother complemented me on my hard work, telling me that he was sure our father would be proud of me as the final result was stunning. At this, I had winced. I was quite certain that Father would be displeased that I had spent time engraving a sword instead of wielding it, and so I asked Boromir not to mention that it was I who had engraved our names. Instead, he should tell Father that he had done the task himself while lying bored in bed and trying to occupy some time. I was sure that Father would accept this lie, and certainly, Boromir would be praised for his thoughtfulness. My brother was not too happy with this lie, telling me that I needed greater confidence in myself. I smiled sadly. Though Boromir was my brother and I loved him very much, there were some things he would never understand about me. Nevertheless, he was determined to argue with me on the matter, and only stopped when we reached the hall of our father, still not convinced.

I was mildly surprised that Father had actually agreed to meet us, and indeed, when I glanced upon him, he looked angered at being disrupted. His face softened though, as Boromir came into view, bearing the sword. I decided to stand further back, lurking in the shadows. Indeed, when Boromir presented Father with the sword, his mood was lightened, and he praised my brother for his consideration. He stood there, marvelling at the sword for a long while, occasionally murmuring to himself that it must have taken Boromir an age to complete the task. Then, he would look at his eldest son with an expression nothing short of awe. He smiled at Boromir and told him that he had once again outdone himself, and made his father proud at the many skills his son possessed. At this, Boromir looked at me with begging eyes, but I shook my head, and his shoulders slumped. 

Meanwhile, our father had asked whose thoughtful suggestion it was to engrave the names of his sons on what would have otherwise been another bland sword. No doubt, the thought behind the gift would mean the sword would most probably end up being treasured immensely. He looked at me as he said this, and I noted that his use of the word probably implied that if it had been my suggestion, his love of the sword would have been somewhat tarnished. I held my father's gaze, but I knew he would not be disappointed. I had also told Boromir to tell Father, if he happened to ask, that it had not been my suggestion, but his. Boromir had disapproved of this even more, saying that I had to take credit for something, but I was adamant. Indeed, my brother looked at me now, and for a moment, I thought he would betray my favour, but I assume then that he saw the extent to which I begged with my eyes. In a barely audible voice, and with head drooped, Boromir replied that it had been his idea. 

I felt sorry for my brother, and guilty that I had put him in such a position, but also knew that he had done the right thing. Though Father was very displeased when Boromir told him that my role had simply been to agree with all of my brother's ideas, I knew that I could not win either way. He believed that I had not helped Boromir, and was thus disappointed that I had failed him again. Yet if I had told him the truth- that it had been my suggestion to engrave the names, and that I had proceeded to do so, he would not love the sword. In this respect, I felt as though I had won. Though he did not know it, Father was actually praising me, and that was good enough for me. Though I would never win his respect, at least I could be assured that there was something that my father loved about me, even if it was a secret to him. 

We were then dismissed, but not before Father had told Boromir that the sword would forever hang in his bedroom, with his eldest son's name forever facing the front, so that the Steward could be reminded of the might of his eldest son, who had once again, proven him proud. I took my leave then, for I could feel tears beginning to well in the corner of my eyes, and to cry in the hall of the Steward was a disgrace. Father did not notice, for he left for his bedroom. I did not look at Boromir, for I knew he was hurting too, that we both desired to be alone. It was strange, for though we had succeeded in lightening our father's mood and coaxing him out of his tower like we had originally planned, the end result was that both of us felt miserable. 

We never attempted such an act again, for the pain that resulted from having to lie to please our father was too great for the both of us. Besides, madness would soon start taking hold of him, and no gift would be able to cure it. After confronting each other about the incident the next day, we promised to never speak of the sword again. And we never did.

It is only now, at catching sight of the sword again after so many years, that this long forgotten memory has resurfaced. Yet it is not recalling the memory which has led to the tears flowing down my cheeks. Rather, they run down my face because, despite my eyes being blurred from sobbing, I have discerned the name on the forward-facing part of the sword. _Faramir._

****

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Random plot bunnies are fun :) And so is Faramir ;) Even when you decide to combine them together late at night when you should be going to sleep now that school is back. Eh. I'm not going to say no to my muses. Anyway, I have to say that the scene in ROTK where Denethor tells Faramir that he wishes Faramir had died instead of Boromir is simply heart-breaking. Strangely enough, I don't hate Denethor, which might explain the ending of this story. Enough rambling. Please review. Greatly appreciated :)

****

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


End file.
